


My Turn

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t even like the library – too many freshmen panicking over their menial classes, too little reading material that isn’t simplistic or already subject to her gaze – so it’s a surprise she’s here, reading up on various rebellions around the world, much less with Stiles Stilinski’s hand up her skirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Turn

The last thing Lydia expects to be doing at half past four on a Wednesday afternoon is hanging around in the school library. She’s never needed the extra time for homework, and all the supernatural research she does is tucked safely away into a file marked  _Grades_2._ She doesn’t even  _like_ the library – too many freshmen panicking over their menial classes, too little reading material that isn’t simplistic or already subject to her gaze – so it’s a surprise she’s here, reading up on various rebellions around the world, much less with Stiles Stilinski’s hand up her skirt.

She supposes she shouldn’t be all that  _shocked,_ really – about a week’s worth of suggestive pouting and shorter-than-what-should-be-legal dresses have gone into seducing the Sheriff’s son – but she didn’t expect him to be so… well. Forward about it.

To be perfectly honest, Lydia had expected a lot more awkward fumbling. More  _Stiles._ What she got instead was a sudden pressure at her back, a low voice in her ear and nimble fingers flirting with the hem of her underwear.

“What – ?” she hisses, surprised. She’s clutching at the bookshelf level with her eyes, heart thudding in her chest like a summoning.

“Quiet, Lyds,” Stiles murmurs, “no shouting in the library, remember?”

His tone is  _far_ too smug for her liking, but that doesn’t stop the little jolt that snaps through her abdomen, hot and twisting. He talks low, voice croaky and sweet, warm breath ghosting over her neck. She bites her lip.

“Don’t get smart with me.  _What_ do you think you’re doing?” Lydia asks – and it’s with great regret that she notes she can’t quite muster the sickly-sweet venom her words usually sport. Instead, something frantic and nerve-stricken slicks her syllables down, and they go from lifeblood to plasma. Weak.

Her breaths come short and sharp as their predicament becomes apparent: should anyone round the X through Z aisle in the non-fiction section, they’ll see Stiles Stilinski (goofball) pressed chest-to-back with one Lydia Martin (Queen), his left palm curving around the front of one creamy white thigh, while the right covers hers against the bookshelf. They’ll see her hair pulled to one side, Stiles’ mouth barely brushing her exposed shoulder.

They’ll see how his left hand spans the entire width of her leg, like his thumb and forefinger were just meant to map out the little crop of freckles below her hip. They’ll see him smile against her ear. They’ll see  _the_ Lydia Martin melt into his touch.

Her teeth sink deeper.

He drums an idle finger against her thigh. “Um… I figured – it was my turn.” The hesitation is utterly lacking in uncertainty; he possesses that all-too familiar self-satisfaction that comes when Stiles Stilinski is acting out one of his (frankly) ridiculous plans. He practically vibrates with excitement, hummingbird heart tapping out sharp staccato beats.

“Your  _turn?_ ” mimics Lydia, a sharp hiss through teeth like cages. Perhaps it’s too loud – or perhaps someone is just shifting in their chair a few rows away, because there’s a sudden noise and then the not-quite-so-innocuous press of his fingers becomes something much more insistent.

He pushes her closer against the bookshelf, drops a hot, wet kiss on her neck. She shivers under his touch, blood thundering in her ears like whitewash crashing on sand. She’s reminded suddenly of what Deaton said –  _a darkness in your heart –_ and of the Nogitsune. The shadow-thing perched inside Stiles. It’s not the first time that one of Stiles’ slow smirks has set the demon skulking along her ribs like ink; she wonders if it left a smear, a certain dark playfulness that can’t be eaten up by his warmth.

She wonders what it says about  _her_ that she kind of enjoys it.

“Yup. My turn.” Stiles husks, and then his blunt nails are scrapping over the crotch of her underwear, light as a whisper but more than enough to make her breath hitch.

“I don’t remember doing this to  _you._ ” she tells him shortly, because as flustered as she might be, Lydia Martin does not falter.

“Really.”

“ _Yes._ ”

“You don’t recall – for example,” he intones, “dropping your books about ninety times this week? Bending over to pick them up, each and every occurrence – by the way –  _right in front of me?_ ”

She feels Stiles’ lips trail up the arc of her throat, a sensation like elastic bands snapping in her gut. “I’m clumsy.” she whispers, and even to her own ears it’s bullshit – she never manages anything less than a strut in six inch heels, much less drop her books in the array of wedge sandals she’s chosen for a stab at practicality.

“Mm,” he shifts forward, cups between her legs with one dexterous hand, “and Saturday night? Just clumsiness?”

Lydia grits her teeth, choking down a whimper – Stage One of her plan to seduce one Stiles Stilinski had taken place at one of the spontaneous McCall Pack outings. A Frat Party,  _somehow_. And Lydia had ground her ass into the front of his jeans the entire night, let him gain some kind of normality through cheap strobe lights and alcohol, then left without saying a word. “Obviously,” she snipes, staring very hard at the lime-green cover of  _A History of Anarchy_ by Annete Yvolkin.

Stiles begins to rub slow, torturous circles over her panties. The heat of his palm leeches straight through them, and despite herself (despite her rules), Lydia tilts her hips back in response. “I wanted to kiss you so badly,” he admits, and drags his bottom teeth over the shell of her ear.

She chokes back the sigh that rises in her throat, chooses tooth and nail instead. “Of course you did. What else is new?”

He ignores the bite in her words, the only sign that they scraped over his skin as they were meant to evidenced in the way he presses his fingers to her cunt  _harder,_ rolls his hips up against her rear. She can’t help but gasp this time. She can’t help but feel heat twisting to her core, so much that she has to muffle a groan into the hand he has clasped over hers. Even if it’s after hours and hardly anybody is in the library – she’s not about to risk some idiot freshman stumbling upon their little rendezvous.

“I wanted to – to do other things. As well.”

And of  _course_ he can’t utter the words. Even now, with his fingers rubbing over her cunt, half hard against her thigh, Stiles Stilinski  _cannot_ say he wants to fuck her.

For lack of a better word –  _dweeb_.

“Other things?” Lydia asks, breathless. Innocent.

He doesn’t answer straight away, instead choosing to draw tight little circles over her. There’s a moment’s pause – in which he nips at the spot right behind her ear – and then, “This kind of thing.”

She just  _knows_  she’s soaking through her underwear, now, and knows he can feel it. “Anything else? Or can you not even say the  _words,_ Stilinski?”

His fingers still. For a second (brief, cold) Lydia thinks she’s gone too far – which is ridiculous, because it’s  _Stiles,_ and he’s been putting up with her glass-shard quips since grade school, and –

His lips at her ear. He’s thrusting his hips against her ass now, unconsciously or not, and she rocks backwards to accommodate. “I wanted to –  _fuck_ – tease you,” he whispers, harsh as she’s ever heard him, slipping his hand inside her panties to stroke at the hot flesh, “make you wet, and – and  _leave_. Like you did.”

She swallows, hard, heat snapping low in her belly. Stiles’ fingers scrap against her swollen folds, unpracticed but persistent in the way that he always seems to be, his hot mouth searing her skin.

“Yeah?” she manages, shakily.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and then the pressure at her back and between her legs is gone, leaving cold air in its wake.

Lydia whirls round as her skirt drops to skim mid-thigh, lips parted in surprise. Stiles wipes the fingers of his left hand on his jeans, offering her a trickster’s smile. Aside from the flush blooming over his cheeks and tell-tale bulge in the crotch of his pants, it looks as if he’s done nothing more than engage her in innocent conversation. There’s a lipstick smudge on the back of his right hand, blood red where she’d stopped herself from crying out. Lydia sucks in a ragged breath. “ _What_?” she hisses.

He moves forward again, crowding her against the bookshelf once more. Stiles traps her in the heat of his gaze, honeyed eyes searching hers. “Your move, Lyds.” he murmurs playfully, and then he is gone, leaving Lydia with weak knees and the slowly dawning feeling that she might ( _might_ ) have just been one-upped by  _Stiles,_ of all people.

“Game on, Stilinski,” she whispers into the space he stood moments before, but her eyes see only checkmate.

 


End file.
